


Of Trips and Falls

by Legendaerie



Series: Spell It Out [4]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, F/M, Fluff, Hogsmeade, this heterosexual nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-28 21:57:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6347173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/Legendaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a visit to Hogsmeade, Carolina finally returns York's scarf. Or she tries to, at least.</p><p>(set around sixth year)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Trips and Falls

**Author's Note:**

> i SWEAR i'll eventually live up to my word and write things out of order but ANYWAY, this is an updated/slightly longer version of a 'drabble' based on a tumblr ask meme! 
> 
> prompt was: The way you said "I love you" - 30) Too quick, mumbled into your scarf

 

Carolina still has York’s scarf.

It mocks her everytime she opens up her small wardrobe and sees the flash of saffron, nestled in among her robes and uniform and collection of soft, cool-colored sweaters. It is an obnoxious eyesore that clashes with everything she owns, and she just keeps forgetting to give it back.

Never mind that he gave hers back a week ago, wrapping it around her neck with a scar-tilted grin and leaving the column of his own throat bare for the rest of class. She caught one of York’s housemates - Lafayette, maybe, with a sharp nose and a perpetual pout - staring hungrily at the open neck of his shirt and the suggestion of collarbones that rolled under his skin as he stirred his potion. And Carolina had suffered in the heat, smothered under two scarves, one of which smelled faintly of cheap Muggle soap, smooth and artificial and complicated. That was why her own face had gotten a little warm as she worked alongside him, chopping up dehydrated ginger root with speed and precision.

York never looked back at Lafayette, though she supposes it's because the leering girl was seated across the aisle on his left side. Not that she cares, of course, but it could be trouble if York ended up with bright red love marks that he’d probably be too stupid to spell away before he had his scarf back. Might be some school policy against public indecency, or whatever.

Still. Carolina shakes herself out of her thoughts and selects a violet-hued angora sweater - one of her favorites. Today they’re headed into Hogsmeade, and she is finally going to wear York's scarf and return the silly thing. Even if it contrasts horribly with her skin tone.

Thankfully, she finds York at the top of the last set of stairs before too many of their classmates have clustered in the hallways. There’s only a faint murmur of conversation in the hallway, and only Florida and Church at her heels.

“Morning,” Florida says sweetly before Carolina can get a word out - York turns on his heel, pleased expression faltering at the sight of them.

“Um, h-hey Florida,” he manages - it’s not surprising, Florida’s Parselmouth tends to color the edges of his words and make people uncomfortable, though it's never bothered York before - and turns to Carolina with a hint of color on his cheeks. “Nice scarf. I was starting to wonder where that went.”

“Sorry. I don’t like the color against my– hair,” she covers, realizing almost too late that “against my skin” might earn her a chorus of leers from her little brother. More than usual, at least.

York clears his throat, which again seems a little too exposed against the sloppy white of his shirt, the dark of his robes. Still unmarked by passion-pink bruises, though. She feels a little relieved, or would if she'd let herself.

“I think it looks good,” he says, mismatched eyes flicking over the scarf and back to her face.

Church snorts, passing them both in Florida’s wake, and mutters something darkly at his shoes. Carolina is slightly too late to shove him down the stairs and call it an accident.

“It doesn’t,” she assures York. “It’s a little too yellow and–”

At the front of the hall, Sarge’s voice bellows out for the students to start lining up. Carolina steps forward, careful to cross in front of York where he can see her, and take his arm to lead him along.  He’s getting better and hardly trips inside the school anymore, but she can’t be too careful if they’re going to Hogsmeade.

Across the room, she catches Lafayette scowling. Carolina tilts her chin up, shrugs her shoulders to settle the scarf better around her neck, and avoids the other student's stare.

“Did you bring a second one?” York asks, passing over his permission slip for inspection as Carolina hands hers to Sheila.

“Second what?”

“Scarf,” he continues, as they head towards the massive doors. A gust of wind, half blocked by their peers, skims the top of Carolina’s head with cold claws more like December than mid October.

“No, I didn’t,” and she is pushed closer to him by the press of bodies, suddenly glad she’s on his blind side. He doesn't say anything, but she still catches him flinch at movement on his left. “Why?”

“You should wear it until we get back. You’ll get cold otherwise.”

He's correct, unfortunately. Already, she’s regretting not grabbing a hat. “And you won’t?” she counters anyway. York’s grip loosens on her elbow, sliding down her forearm to lace their fingers together.

“I’ll be fine,” and he takes advantage of the added mobility and the thinning crowds as they fan out in front of the school to turn and give Carolina a broad smile. “I don’t get as cold as you do.”

Once again, he’s right and she can’t complain. Her circulation is terrible. Sometimes when they’re studying on the couches of the Slytherin common room, she’ll shove her toes under his thighs to warm them and he’ll tease her about her sluggish so-called Pure blood.

“Gold still isn’t my color,” she finishes, letting him swing their conjoined hands back and forth for a few paces before reeling him back in, away from a patch of rather slick-looking pebbles from last night’s downpour.

“Fine, fine,” and there's still a smile lingering in the corners of his mouth, one that draws her eyes and makes them stay for a moment too long. And then Washington blows past them, two Gryffindors at his heels, and the group erupts in a welcome, distracting, amiable chaos.

 

* * *

 

They switch sides once or twice during the day, and separate entirely when Carolina insists on spending thirty minutes in Spintwitches picking out a new pair of gloves for the upcoming Ravenclaw-Slytherin match.  He’s still on the same bench by the fountain where she left him when she emerges, a Galleon and some change lighter but enthralled with the sleek grip of her sustainably-harvested beithir-hide gloves.

York doesn’t see her at first, head tilted forward as he rolls and unrolls the top of his paper bag from the bakery.  He seems content, soaking in what could be the last sunny day of the month, but as she watches a gust of wind hits him from behind, skimming over the magically leaping water. His shoulders hunch in a little shiver.

Of course he’s cold. Sitting on the iron bench all by himself, he must be. And yet he volunteered to stay out here, rather than meddle around in a neighboring shop. Here, in her immediate line of sight. Carolina smothers a grin into her borrowed scarf, whispers what might have once been a scold, years ago, into the gold and black weave and then walks confidently into his line of sight.

She wonders if the smile that flashes across his face is a conscious effort, or just an automatic reflection of her own. “What did you get?” he asks.

She fishes the pair out, hands them over to him for inspection. York offers her the bag in exchange, and she sneaks a peek at a small loaf of cheese-baked bread.

“Very nice,” he assures her, the sleek gloves looking almost resentfully smaller in his larger hands. They pass their purchases back and Carolina settles in on his right side, hissing at the biting chill of the metal bench against her legs. Her skirt is riding up just enough that one bar can catch the bare skin of her legs above her socks. She pushes her robes aside to fix the problem, pulling the skirt down and the sock up, and when she’s finished York’s head jerks conspicuously away.

“What?” she asks, bundling her clothes tighter.

“Nothing.”

She doesn’t believe him for a second, but then he’s passing her some of his bread and Carolina decides she’s too hungry to care. The roll is still warm, moist enough to be perfect even plain and untoasted, and she takes advantages of the hungry silence to take in the scenery. Nearly every shop is already decked out in Hallowe’en decorations, window displays ablaze with oranges and reds and golds, and Carolina chews thoughtfully. Their schoolmates wander from place to place, mingling freely with the residents, but she feels peacefully detached here. Drawing her wand, she casts a gentle warming charm around them and at last lets herself relax into the iron bench.

“Where to next?” She asks, and in the corner of her eye she watches York swallow.

“Well--” he clears his throat and starts again, “there’s always Honeydukes.”

She makes a tch of disapproval. “I can see the crowds from here.” It’s a good shop and deserves the business, but she’s not too keen on braving the masses just for some Ice Mice.

They’re close enough she can feel York’s shrug brush her folded arms, and she takes another bite of bread. “Dogweed and Deathcap for some herbs?” He tries next. “I’ve been wanting to try some potions on my own, outside of class.”

“You’ve been doing that since third year,” she reminds him, with still half a mouthful of bread. “You mean you want to do so without stealing from the professor’s stores.”

“Nah, I’ll still take a little,” York admits freely. “It’s not like Andy’s actually using them. Or notices. I just want to start brewing in larger quantities, with fresher plants. Maybe take some of the less dangerous ones home over Christmas, too.”

They both tense up at that - Carolina because she dreads the trip back home to the massive, cold, austere mansion and the drab social events with other old Pureblood families - and after a pause she mutters agreement. “Let’s go.”

She gets about three steps off the bench before she feels her shoes lose traction. There’s no time to pull out her wand, no time to warn York (who has taken her hand again) and with a yelp, Carolina hits the ground hard. Her left elbow catches the worst of it, the shock radiating up her arm as the bone strikes the stone ground, but she’d also managed to drag York to his knees. Or he’d dropped there of his own accord from concern.

Gritting her teeth, Carolina tucks her knees together and sits up, feeling a hot flush of shame and fury coloring her cheeks. York runs his hand down her forearm, and it takes her a moment to realize he’s asking her something.

“What?”

“I asked are you all right?” If York notices the stares of passersby, he doesn’t act like it. Just traces his fingertips over her elbow, his knee warm at her side. “That was a pretty nasty fall.”

Carolina glances down at the suspiciously gleaming patch of cobblestone at her feet, and even a swift look tells her that it’s a spell. “Lafayette.”

“Hm?”

“Is she around? She’s got a-- thing for you.” She bends and unbends her arm, Spintwitches bag still held tight in that fist, and she’s relieved she hadn’t sprung for any fragile purchases. York spares a brief glance over her shoulder.

“I see her,” and just as fast his attention is back on Carolina, settling into a more comfortable kneel as she tucks her legs to the side.

“I think she’s jealous of me.” As soon as she gets over the sting and the shock, she’s going to chase that filthy little Hufflepuff down her and hex the worst bald spot in the crown of her pretty, pretty straight brown hair.

“Who wouldn’t be?” York teases. “You’re amazing.” And then he gives her a look; one that’s warm and sweet and heavy with promise, and he reaches up to brush a few strands of hair out of her face.

For a moment, she forgets to breathe.

The very next, her voice is colder than the bench and six times as hard. “What are you doing.”

Some of the heat evaporates from his gaze, but he doesn’t move. “She’s watching.”

“So?”

“So she likes me, right? And she doesn’t like you. Because I like you.” The hand that was on her face slides down her side to plant itself on the other side of her hip. Carolina’s eyes dart between his, colored like the sky; evening-blue in one, the other veiled in cataract clouds. “So this is revenge.”

And she gets his meaning. “You shouldn’t spend so much time in our common room. The Slytherins are rubbing off on you.”

York laughs softly in the minimal space between them. “You know, I did ask to be in that house. I was so star-struck when I met you on the train, I wanted to be a Slytherin like you.”

She remembers. Considers taunting him about how he still acts a little starstruck to this day, too, but lets it slide. “So why weren’t you?”

“Because I asked to be with my friends. That’s about as Hufflepuff as you get. Honestly, sometimes I wonder how your grades are as high as they are. You can miss the obvious.” His gaze flicks down to her chin, and from this close she can see him lean slightly closer. Carolina swallows.

But there’s not nearly enough detached cool in her voice when she asks, “are you going to kiss me?”

“Why,” and the smile is back, his voice dropping an octave, and he definitely leans in. “Do you want me to?”

She means to say, _No_. She means to say, _Not here, not where everyone can see us_. She means to say, _Not as an act of revenge when there’s hardly a spiteful bone in your body_. But she never answers, because at that moment a shadow falls across them. Carolina’s eyes drift over and up to meet a pair that almost matches her own, narrowed in distaste and hidden behind glasses.

“Fucking gross,” says Church, and he’s very lucky that York was mostly blocking Carolina’s line of sight, otherwise she would have hexed him into next week. Even so, she pins him with her most withering stare just before a Gryffindor fourth-year tackles him from the side at a dead run.

“Ground party!” The newcomer exclaims, followed by the same two Gryffindors who had chased Washington out of the school. Underneath him, Church squalls furiously.

“Caboose, get the fuck off me!” her cousin hisses, but his captor is solid and affectionate and almost a foot taller. Carolina accepts this turn of events as justice and lets out a huff that might have been a laugh.

York’s hand brushes Carolina’s hip as he withdraws and stands, offering her a hand up. She accepts it and meets the skeptical eyes of North’s twin sister South.

“Ground party,” South echoes, making a show of leaning on the shoulder of her housemate Tucker, “is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“Sounds like someone hasn’t been invited to one in a while,” Carolina counters coolly. “Come on, York. We have flowers to buy.”

She doesn’t take his hand until they’ve left the Gryffindors behind, until they're deep into the M section of the seeds in Dogweed and Deathcap. Between _Matthiola incana_ and _Matthiola longipetala_ Carolina pretends not to notice as York runs his fingers down her arm until he can lace them with her own as he flips, one handed, through a catalog of seeds suspended on a cord.

“Arnica flowers make a good potion for bruises,” is all he says, his tone playful and insubstantial like motes in a beam of sunlight. She lets his concern warm her rather than irritate her, accepts it for the kindness behind it, and kicks him lightly in the shin.

 

 


End file.
